“And apropos of ankles,” said my uncle, who was a confirmed bachelor, “Beware of women most of all! Never trust a secret to a woman, Roger—never!”
“There are none to confide in,” I assured him, “except Miss Rendall—and she is one of the suspected; whatever Jack’s gallantry may say.”
“My gallantry is a thing of the past,” said Jack, “I suspect everybody in that d⸺d place. And I’d advise you to do the same.”
“Everybody!” echoed Sir Francis. “And confide in no one.”
The evening came to an end at last, and with a sigh I left that comfortable smoking room. As I passed out into the hall, however, my uncle took my arm and made one brief but comforting speech in my ear.
“Don’t worry about money matters, Roger, old fellow. Of course I’m paying the doctor’s fee, and if you ever need anything more just let me know. If you bring this off—”
He did not finish his sentence but pressed my arm and gave me a nod and a smile.
III
The Alcoholic Patient
On a raw grey February morning Mr. Thomas Sylvester Hobhouse bade a polite farewell to the medical gentlemen who had escorted him thus far, and stepped aboard the little steamer sailing from a certain small and ancient port out into the northern isles of that archipelago. This medical escort was a typical instance of my uncle’s relentless thoroughness. He was not in the secret, and so all the way from Euston to those remote islands I had to endure the ordeal of sitting under the eye of a conscientious middle-aged gentleman with a strong Yorkshire accent and but one idea in his head:—to keep in readiness to seize me at each station in case I leapt out of the carriage and headed for the refreshment rooms. We parted, I think, with equal relief on either side.
Under a heavy sky and a chilly wind we steamed through divers waterways, touched at divers islands, and shipped and unshipped many cattle. At last, when it had turned afternoon and the wind was beginning to feel wet as well as chilly, Thomas Sylvester stepped ashore on the modest pier at Ransay. Already he had noted from the deck his prospective host, pipe in mouth and hands in his knickerbocker pockets among a small knot of inhabitants, but to his relief there were no other familiar faces.
“Let me be firmly established as Mr. Hobhouse, the doctor’s new paying guest, before they look at me too closely!” he said to himself.
In the doctor’s blue eyes there was not a sign of recognition or suspicion. I noticed again his habit of glancing at one askance which had raised my ready suspicions last time we had met, but apart from that his greeting was cordial and pleasant enough.
“I’ve only got an open trap, Mr. Hobhouse,” he said, “and it’s a three mile drive. I hope you have got a warm coat.”
Mr. Hobhouse, I may mention, was a gentleman with an extremely polite, nervously effusive manner, who always agreed with everybody and blinked a little as he looked at them with apologetic friendliness through his gold-rimmed glasses. Those who have seen that sprightly comedy Heels Up may perhaps remember the not unsuccessful character of Sir Douglas Jenkinson Bart (played by Mr. Roger Merton). Mr. Thomas Sylvester Hobhouse would have reminded them of Sir Douglas forcibly.
“Oh yes, doctor, a beautifully warm coat; you needn’t worry about me at all. I shall be very comfortable—very comfortable indeed, thank you,” Mr. Hobhouse assured him.
Dr. Rendall eyed his patient again, and there seemed to be a gleam of satisfaction in his glance, as though this were the kind of polite, acquiescent gentleman he liked.
There was a weary delay in getting my baggage out of the hold, and the February afternoon had grown greyer by the time we started in the doctor’s pony trap. As the road was heavy with mud and covered with patches of loose metal every here and there, those three miles proved the longest I have ever driven. By this time the wind was sweeping clouds of fine rain into our faces, and seen through this driving vapour the island looked another place from the Ransay of summer time. The flowers were gone, and the corn, and even the greenness of the grass, which now was of a pale yellowish-olive hue; and I thought that a nakeder, more inhospitable looking spot surely man had never visited.
Under such circumstances we talked little; the doctor only making a remark now and then in a dutiful way, and Mr. Hobhouse effusively agreeing with him. That gentleman was quite content to postpone his enquiries until he had got a little warmer and drier, and at times he even felt acute anxiety lest the bleak house that loomed ahead, visible afar over the treeless country, was actually moving away from them. They seemed to approach it so slowly.
Evening was near at hand when Mr. Hobhouse entered his teetotal haven, and his effusiveness was quite sincere as he rubbed his hands over a blazing fire in the doctor’s smoking room, and still sincerer when he faced an excellent high tea.
The conversation naturally turned on the war, and Thomas Sylvester showed an anxiety to learn his host’s opinions and an enthusiastic agreement with each one of them that seemed to please the doctor. He became more and more talkative and genial, but though his guest mentally went through his words with a tooth-comb as he uttered them, he had to confess at the end of a chatty hour that the doctor exhibited neither any special knowledge of military and naval affairs, nor any lack of zeal for the cause of his country.
“No treason so far!” said Thomas to himself.
Then with what he flattered himself was the art which conceals art, Mr. Hobhouse brought the conversation round to the subject of the doctor himself and his household. He enthusiastically
